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Your body realises you have lost your child before your
brain does. The invisible umbilical cord between you
snaps. Everything inside you goes loose and limp. Only
then does your brain register what is happening. It
kicks into action, trying to prove to your body that it is
wrong. You do what it tells you, of course. You scramble
in every direction. Pulling and pulling on your end of
that cord. Hoping that if you pull hard enough, if youshout and kick and scream, if you can only get to the
other end, you might somehow find your child still
there.
When they are not. When it is clear that they have
gone. That is when the guilt kicks in. You are their
mother. You have a duty to look after them. And youhave failed in that duty of care, therefore you are a
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failed mother. How can you be anything else when it
happened on your watch? While your eyes were closed,for goodness sake.
That is when you start to shut down inside. One by
one, your vital organs cease to function. It is hard to
know how you carry on breathing, how the blood pumps
around your body, because you are certainly not doing
it willingly.You wish that somebody would be kind enough to put
you out of your misery. Until you realise that this is the
price you must pay to suffer in the way that your child
has. You deserve nothing less for letting them down so
badly. And so you live your non-existent life. And every
day when you wake up, if you have been lucky enough
to get any sleep at all, the first word you say is sorry.
They cant reply, of course. But you say it all the same. In
the hope that somehow they will hear and forgive you.
Even though you know you will never forgive yourself.
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1
LISA
You havent seen me climb up to the big slide yet, have
you, Mummy? says Ella, who is lying on top of our bed
in her grubby Frozenpyjamas.
I am not the sort of mum who beats herself up about
missing firsts. I missed Chloes first steps (though
Mum, bless her, described them to me afterwards with
a commentary befitting the moon-landings), but I
wasnt particularly bothered about this because tryingto earn enough money to get our own place was more
important to me than being able to tick off a list of
milestones in some crappy baby book that your mother-
in-law gave you. (I didnt have a mother-in-law at the
time, on account of Chloes father not having hung
around long enough after I told him I was pregnant forme to even meet his mother, let alone marry her son,
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but if I had done, I reckon she would have given me one
of those books.)But today, for some reason, Ellas words sting a little.
Perhaps its the fact that since she first conquered the
route up the rope climbing frame on Monday with Mum
watching, Dad, Alex and even Otis have all seen her
repeat the feat. Or maybe its the fact that today is her
last weekday of freedom. Ella starts school on Monday.And although she is excited about it now, I am well
aware that when she realises she also has to go to school
on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, not just
the first week but every week from now on, she will be
furious at being denied the chance of spending her
afternoons in the park, as she has this week.
No, how about I come and see you do it today then? I
say. Ella beams at me, her dimples showing and two
rows of tiny teeth bared in one of those smiles which
children stop doing when they become self-conscious.
I thought you had clients this afternoon, says Alex,
rubbing his eyes as he comes round.
My three oclocks cancelled, and Suzies alreadyoffered to do my last one if I want to get away early.
Itll give Mum a break too. Shell be shattered after the
party.
What party? asks Alex, who has never been able
to get his head around our childrens packed social
calendar.Charlies party, says Ella before I can answer,
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jumping up and down on the bed. Hes going to be four
but hes still not as old as me.We both smile. Charlie Wilson lives next door to us.
He and Ella are almost a year apart but will be starting
school together next week. And she is so not ever going
to let him forget who is older.
Where is it? asks Alex.
Jumping Beans, I reply.Oh, shame youve got to work then. Youd have enjoyed
that. Alex turns to me with a wry smile, being well aware
of my aversion to soft play centres in general and the one
with the crappiest party food in town in particular.
Yeah, never mind eh, I reply. Im sure therell be
plenty of others once she gets to school.
Pretty much every other weekend, from what I can
remember with Otis, who will thankfully soon be
entering the more chilled-out going-bowling-with-a-
few-mates party phase.
Are you going to come and see me get my football
medal then? asks Otis, who has been lying quietly on
the other side of Alex (we have got the four-to-a-bedthing off to a fine art).
Yeah, as long as you behave and dont do a Luis Suarez
on the last day. I smile. Otis grins back. Having been
blessed with his fathers temperament, we all know this
is highly unlikely.
Are you coming too, Daddy? he asks, climbing overonto Alex.
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No. Sorry, mate, says Alex, ruffling Otiss hair, which
has grown longer than it probably should have overthe holidays. Ill drop you off at footie camp, but
then Ive got to go to a meeting in Manchester. You can
show me your medal when I get home though, cant
you?
Otis nods. And Grandad, he says. Ill take it to show
Grandad too. My dad has a bet on Otis playing for LeedsUnited and England by the time hes twenty-five. Otis is
good but Im not sure hes that good. Not that it matters.
The important thing is that he prefers to spend his time
running around outside kicking a football, instead of
hunched in front of an Xbox or a tablet. How long that
will last I dont know, but Im going to make the most of
it while it does.
Right, I say, stretching out under the duvet. Wed
better get up and get sorted then. Last one down to
breakfast has to clear up afterwards.
Ella and Otis scramble up in a blur of limbs and hair
and disappear from our room. Alex rolls over to me.
When do you think that one will stop working?I dont know. Hopefully not until they start having
lie-ins.
And remind me when that is again, he asks, tucking
a strand of my hair back behind my ear. Its all a bit of
a blur to me.
I smile, remembering how Alex, having earned count-less brownie points for being such a brilliant stepfather
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to Chloe, then lost as many by being utterly hopeless
with sleep deprivation when we had Otis and Ella.I think Chloe was about twelve.
Great, only another seven years to go until the end of
the early mornings then.
I dig him in the ribs before kissing him. His breath is
warm. His lips taste of mornings. I pull him closer to
me, wishing we could have a bit longer in bed. Some-times I feel the need to introduce myself to him when
we finally grab a few minutes together.
Hey, dont start all that stuff, he says.
Why not? We are married, apparently.
Are we? When the hell did that happen? Did I actu-
ally wake up in time for the ceremony?
I kiss him again to shut him up. Only just.
Anyway, I need a shower, he continues. Sticky night.
I smell like a pig.
No, you dont, I reply (working in a gym qualifies me
as something of an expert on this subject). And any-
way, I add, running my fingers down his back, even if
you did, I could put up with it.Shame someone will be barging in here in two min-
utes complaining that his sister has nicked the Coco
Pops then, isnt it?
I smile and give him one last kiss.
They wont like it next week, you know, I say. When
it goes back to being boring, healthy stuff for the schoolterm.
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Well, if you set yourself up as the evil cereal dictator,
you have to deal with dissent in the ranks.Thanks for your support.
No problem. And just so you know when you have to
referee the fallout,
